That Concise Whatever
by vodka straight
Summary: You can all call me Jed." The last day of the Bartlet White House.


A/N: This story does not include Will. This story acts as though there never was a Will and Sam is still Dept. Communications Director. I love Will. In fact, if you love Will as much as I do, you probably won't like this story. But I love Sam a little more, and I suddenly realized that Sam will have no part of the last day in the Bartlet White House, and I wanted him back.  
  
That Concise Whatever  
  
You watch the clock on your desk. It's in the back right-hand corner and you've never noticed it there because there's always been the computer and there have always been files and there's always been something to do. Now the computer's gone, and so are the files, and so are the things to do, and there's the clock, in the back right-hand corner of your desk.   
  
Another minute ticks off. Lately, you've become very aware of the minutes, ticking off. That's one minute you'll never get back.   
  
You watch Sam cross the bullpen with a cardboard box between his arms, similar to the ones stacked up next to your desk, similar to the ones in Josh's office, in Donna's, in Toby's. Similar to the ones in the back of your head that you've been trying so hard to open for the last week.   
  
You want to find something that can sum it all up. That can make all eight years mean one concise, pinpoint-sized profoundness. You wish it could be "We did good." but quite frankly, you can't get yourself to believe "We did our best." All you can come up with is the clock in the right-hand corner of your desk and the minute's ticking off. All you can come up with is "One minute you'll never get back."  
  
You look up and Sam, that pretty thing with his rimless glasses and perfect white dress-shirt, is leaning against your doorway.   
  
"You look tired." He comments. Eight years, you think.   
  
"Eight years." You say. You've decided that it's time to stop putting a barrier between you and what you say. That was for politics.   
  
Politics is over now.   
  
Eight years, holy fuck. That's almost a decade of your life.  
  
Sam smiles at the comment, but doesn't laugh. He might have if it hadn't actually happened.   
  
"You almost done packing up?" he asks. You look down across the expanse of empty office that feels like some graveyard of your life.   
  
There, protruding from a desk drawer, your love life. Right there, squeezed in-between the old press briefings.   
  
"I am done." You say. You look up and Sam nods.  
  
"Me too."   
  
Under the desk, if you feel around, you can find the jut of your Hollywood potential. You'll leave that here, too. You've got no choice.   
  
"We're done." You say, and you both know it's not about packing up. Or maybe it is.   
  
You're genuine belief in human morality has sunk through the grates of the vent and the cracks in the floor.   
  
And on the wall, snuggled right beneath the degree from Berkley, is your womanhood, a femininity you're not sure you ever really had now.  
  
You smile and ask who brought the alcohol, and Sam laughs, a real laugh, and says Toby. You follow him into the Communications office. You remember Sam and Toby locking themselves in here for the first State of the Union. You remember all the crude jokes Josh told and all the different things Donna smacked him with.   
  
Now there had been eight. Eight different speeches, eight different lock-ins as though they were Cardinals in the Vatican choosing a pope.   
  
You remember the little rubber ball that used to hit the glass.  
  
You remember the low whistles that followed you down the hall in your red dress before parties and the way Toby used to hide on your office couch.  
  
You remember the taste of Chinese food at two in the morning when you were all together and on-and-off the phones and trying to save the world.  
  
Toby tips his glass. "To a new era." People nod.  
  
"To our future." Donna chirps, and Toby laughs, and you laugh too, and Donna blushes at her own youth.   
  
"To old friends." Sam, getting sentimental when drunk.  
  
"To a goodbye to politics." Josh breathes and people giggle.   
  
"And republicans!" Donna seconds, her penance, and there's more laughter.  
  
"To fighting the good fight, for whatever it's worth." Sam murmurs.  
  
"For *everything* it's worth." Toby corrects gently, and Sam nods.  
  
Josh cracks a smile. "To the next guys who sit behind these desks."   
  
And you realize what you've been left with. And something about them, about these people, makes it okay.   
  
"To the last eight years." You say, with a purposely sober tone. The laughter is silenced.   
  
"The last eight years." Toby mutters, clinking his glass with yours.   
  
"The last eight years." Josh and Donna slur together.  
  
"To the last eight years." Sam finishes, taking a drink of his fourth glass of champagne.   
  
It's almost time to go when the President walks in, followed by Leo. Your boxes are all downstairs, and a few are even in your car. Most people are ready. It's nine o'clock. It's time to go.  
  
The President walks in. The President walks in because it's just the five of you, having another drink. The President walks in because he's always been one of you, even when he wasn't, and because he's made these past eight years worth toasting.   
  
The President walks in because that very first day in California by the side of the pool, Toby had been right: he was a good man.   
  
The President stands there for quite a while and doesn't say anything. He's not smiling, but his face holds potential. He looks tired. Leo stands behind him.   
  
Finally the President sighs, "Say something."   
  
You all know who he's talking to. Leo smiles slightly.  
  
"What should I say?" he says quietly, still standing behind him.   
  
The President sighs a long sigh again, but remains facing forward, away from Leo. He speaks barely audibly and sounds very tired.   
  
"Well, good god, man. You got me into this."   
  
There is a silence. For a moment you might cry.  
  
"And you made it out, sir." Leo murmurs, smiling slightly.  
  
The President nods. "You can call me Jed, Leo." He takes a few steps forward. "You can all call me Jed."   
  
You can just see the edge of the chalkboard in Josh's office from where you're standing. You can only just read the bold, white words scrawled across.   
  
"WE SERVE AT THE PLEASURE OF OURSELVES."  
  
You laugh slightly.  
  
Sam is waxing poetic on the other side of the room.  
  
Donna has her hand on Josh's back.  
  
Leo is sipping a club soda with a remote smile on his face, and Jed is watching it all as though they were his children.   
  
And of course, that was it. That was that perfect profound thing, that concise moment of whatever.   
  
*//Is he a good man?//*  
  
You *don't* serve at the pleasure of yourself. You never will be able to again.   
  
fin 


End file.
